Situations
by respitechristopher
Summary: AU: Two years after a war that didn't end the way anyone expected, Hermione finds herself in the last place she expected to wind up. Will Draco be the one to pull her out? Warning: depictions of domestic violence.


**Author's Note: **Please note: This story contains depictions of domestic violence. If reading such depictions will disturb you, please do not read further.

**Situations**

The war, such as it was by that point, ended with the destruction of the Burrow in February, 2001. Three years after Harry and Riddle died at Hogwarts, the Weasleys' ancestral home was our last headquarters, and one of four strongholds left for the Light. Bill had warded it to the gills, Charlie, Ginny and Ron had been flying 8 hour watches around the perimeter, ready to unleash holy hell on the Death Eaters' first wave, Molly and Arthur did their best to keep everyone entertained, and George tried to drink himself into his twin's early grave. I managed the war. "General Granger," they called me, as the alliteration was too good to pass up, even after Ron and I were married. We were fighting a war of attrition with what was left of the Death Eaters – at least the Death Eaters that were actually fighting. The less barbaric of them had moved on to hold positions in government. The good thing about this war was that the Death Eaters were losing. The bad thing was that so were we.

It happened quickly. I was out buying supplies, as our intelligence told us to expect a siege. By the time I got back, there were smoldering ruins where our house used to be. Ten people were dead. There was no more Burrow, and I was the last Weasley.

After the Burrow was destroyed, the horror and brutality of the war was no longer able to be ignored by the public. The MacNair government, being savaged both in the press and by their constituency, put a forcible end to hostilities. Murder was made a capital offense. The sentence for a Grievous Bodily Harm conviction was a minimum of 35 years in Azkaban, without possibility of parole. Association with "anarchist groups" (and both The Order of the Phoenix and the Death Eaters were immediately designated thusly) was cause to be sent to Azkaban for five years, and put on a watch list the rest of one's life. But the most important thing the government did in their April 2001 slate of legislation, was to grant general amnesty to both the Death Eaters and the Order, if we would accept a government-enforced ceasefire. Alecto Carrow and I met in the Minister's office, surrounded by photographers, and on May 2, 2001 – three years to the day after the battle that turned the war into a series of skirmishes, we signed the ceasefire.

At first I thought to find my parents in Australia, but after all these years, I was no longer sure it would be worth it. There was no home in England for them to return to – the Cheltenham cottage I grew up in had been destroyed in '99 – and they were probably better off never having met the Magical world. So I discarded that idea pretty quickly, gathered together the last few thousand galleons in the Weasley vault, added that to the few thousand pounds I'd skimmed off my parents' retirement account when I sent them to Australia, and tried to set up a home for myself. Within six months, half the money had gone, and I was coming to the sudden realization that no one in the Magical world would ever hire the former leader of the notorious Order of the Phoenix. So I went back to Gloucestershire, and, not wanting to mistakenly run into any of my parents' old friends, made do in a three-room Council flat in Gloucester. This stretched my savings out a bit, as Galleons are worth significantly more in the Muggle world than in Magical Britain. Having neither O- nor A-levels, finding any kind of work was difficult, especially in the months after New York was attacked. But I did what I could for a couple of years, finding work off the books here and there as a waitress, or in a shop. During the autumn months, I would work weekends in the apple orchards, never letting on exactly how I was able to carry six stones of apples on my back. I supplemented this income with the occasional trip to the bingo hall, casting a light spell on the machines to make them pay out more often.

By 2004 I was drinking quite heavily, bouncing from job to job, having to take a bus to and from Cheltenham for work once I'd burned up all of my Gloucester bridges. On Valentine's Day of that year, celebrating both my single status and the third anniversary of having said status thrust upon me, I was stumbling out of a club, having spent my last fiver on the fifth and sixth vodka Red Bulls of the night. This had become my usual haunt, as it was close enough to stumble home from, and close enough to a bingo hall for times like these, when the money was gone before I was drunk enough. I was a bit sloppy with my wand work this time, however, and as the machine began to light up and drop coins, I realized I'd put a bit too much into it, and that the Ministry's Muggle Artifacts department would have me in a cell before the end of the week. For the offense, I thought my sentence quite harsh: six months in a Ministry holding cell (much better than Azkaban), and an additional five years of probation after that, during which time I was not to have any contact with Muggles whatsoever. The jig, as they say, was up.

After incarceration, my probation included a six-month work release program, of sorts. I was to report to a primary school set up for war orphans, in which I'd work however I was needed. Upon arrival, I was handed a hair net and pointed towards the kitchen. And it was there that I saw his face for the first time in five years.

"Granger," he said, dispassionately.

"Malfoy," I grumbled in reply.

We worked in silence from half-past eight until lunch at 1:30. Not knowing anyone else, we sat together in the refectory after the last student had filed out, silently eating, and occasionally glaring at each other. With five minutes to go in our lunch break, Malfoy was the one who broke the silence.

"This isn't exactly pleasant for me, either, Granger. But we could at least try civility."

"Look, I appreciate it and all, but I'm hung-over as hell, and I don't have a civil bone in my body at the present moment. Find me when I'm not hung-over, okay?" I replied, knowing full well that this would never happen at work, unless I figured out how to sneak a flask in.

"Suit yourself," he replied, and went back to eating.

Over the next two weeks, we began to actually converse. His offense involved a fight in a pub that came to wands, but as his father was a respected member of the Wizengamot, he was able to escape serving any actual time. He seemed genuinely impressed at my transgression, asking me in some detail how I was able to get away with it for so long. The regular employees gave us quite a bit of distance, not daring or wanting to associate with convicted criminals, and our forced proximity and shared circumstances put us in the odd position of looking forward to spending time together.

So it was hardly a surprise when he showed up one night at the pub near the Ministry almshouse where I was living in Devonshire. I was drinking myself legless, and he sat right down at my table and began to do the same. Fading in and out of a blackout, I vaguely remember beginning to snog him senseless right there at the table, then finding myself in my flat, and finally coming to in my bed, with him on top of me, tugging on my nipple with his teeth. For a brief second I considered that this was Malfoy I was fucking, and that that probably wasn't the wisest thing I could be doing just then. But, as the last man I'd had between my legs had been Ron, that thought was no match for my baser instincts. Sweaty, spent and satisfied, I watched him apparate away with a wry smirk on my face. Either I was too drunk or too horny to notice, or Draco Malfoy wasn't half bad in the sack.

I showed up to work the next morning, in my usual desperately hung-over state, to see Malfoy standing over his mops with a catbird grin. I shook my head and walked over to him.

"What in Merlin's name were you doing in fucking Devonshire last night?" I asked him. "Slumming it?"

"You didn't seem to mind," he replied. "And I'm pretty sure I could ask your neighbors, and they'd agree with me."

I shot him a rude hand gesture, grabbed my own mops, and got to work. But I didn't get away fast enough to avoid hearing one last dig at my newfound appreciation for profanities.

That scene played itself out with increasing regularity over the next few weeks, and each time it would take less and less liquor for Draco and I to wind up a sticky, tangled mess in my bed. We began to stay in my flat all day on Saturdays; drinking, having sex, sleeping it off, and beginning again. At one point he brought a wireless, and we cuddled on the sofa listening to a radio program while he fondled me under my blouse. At another point he brought an extra toothbrush and a change of clothes. And he always brought the firewhiskey.

The rows began in February – Valentine's Day again, as a matter of fact. He showed up late, without a present, and I laid into him something fierce. I probably shouldn't have called him a pig who likes to slum it with the council estate slags to get a leg over, and he certainly shouldn't have hit me in response, but the sex we had that night was some of our best. And the opal earrings he brought me the following day were nearly as effective as the dittany in setting things to rights between us. And the fur stole didn't hurt, either.

By this point we were both through with our work programs, and were settling into a kind of normalcy. I would work all day at an inn up the road, changing linens and generally trying to stay out of sight. At night I would lock myself in my flat with a large bottle of the cheapest goblin wine I could find, pass out, wake up, and go to work. Occasionally I would get it together to order in some curry. Two or three nights during the week, and all day Saturday, Draco would come by. We'd get drunk, have sex, sleep, and do it all again. Occasionally we'd get a pizza, as Draco preferred that to curry, and he was buying. But then one Saturday, everything changed.

"Let me take you somewhere," Draco said, rather than simply rolling over and falling asleep once he'd had his way with me.

"Come again?" I asked, hoping he'd fall asleep quickly so I could finish scratching my own itch.

"I mean it," he answered. "Let me take you to France. You'd love France."

"I've been to France," I replied. "It was nice. What the fuck are you on about, then?"

"It's just… Look," he said, fumbling for words, and looking quite earnest in his post-coital haze. "We've known each other a long time, right? I mean, I've known you since well before all this," he said, gesturing around my almshouse flat, "and I know that deep down inside, this isn't who you are. Now while I didn't get along with that Hermione, I certainly admired her – however begrudgingly – and would like to see you recapture a bit of that. Is that such a nefarious notion?"

"Get out," I said in a barely concealed growl.

"Excuse me?"

"I said get the fuck out of my sight, you pandering cunt," I yelled. "So fucking high and mighty you are, Mister Malfoy, coming all the way out here to the poorhouse to take some girl out of her situation. I am not your good-hearted whore. Now get out of here before I lose –"

His smack across my face stopped my rant, and I looked at him, mouth agape, eyes wide and teary.

"Don't you dare call me a whore-monger, you worthless, mud-blooded drunk!" he said, gathering his clothes up off the floor and putting them on, hurriedly. "I wanted to do something nice for you; give you a trip, that's all. If you don't want it, fine. But don't you dare assume what my motives are."

I sat there mutely as he stormed out, one hand over the cheek where he'd hit me, the other clutching the bedclothes over my chest. Forty-five minutes and most of a bottle of mead later, a slurring otter floated into his window to let him know that I'd changed my mind, and would be happy to accompany him to France.

The following weekend, we landed in the largest community in Magical France – Nantes. Our hotel room was decadently French baroque, and larger than my entire flat. He bought me a week's worth of clothes to go out in, took me dancing, took me to fancy restaurants, and doted on me as if I were the only girl in the world. We went to a magical vineyard, owned and run by elves, and tasted far too much of the most delicious wine I've ever had. We went to an exhibition of Veela artwork, and toured the Beauxbatons library. Back in our hotel room, there were nights I could almost believe we were making love instead of just fucking. And we were both smiling so broadly the whole time that I was afraid my face might get stuck that way. He would hold my hand as we walked, and hold it over the table while we waited for our food to arrive, and would kiss the backs of my fingers before letting it go.

I suppose it was silly of me to think this kind of attention would last after we got back to England, but a girl can hope, and for the first time in years, I'd felt as the kind of girl who could hope. Only four of those two-dozen bottles of elf-made wine were gone a week after we'd returned, but Draco had only been by twice. A month after that, he was just coming over on Friday nights. One of those Friday nights, after he'd fallen asleep, I put a tracking charm on his y-fronts, so I could find where he was living those days.

By the time I arrived at the Manor, I had a rant all queued up. How dare he profess all of that love to me, if not with his words, then with his actions, and barely see me once we'd got home? How dare he just walk out of my life without so much as a 'by your leave'?

"Draco," Mrs. Malfoy called out after seeing me through the foyer windows. "I do believe one of your playthings has come calling."

"Be right there, Mother," Draco called back.

Red-faced and trying very hard not to cry, I waited, taking a quick nip off of the flask I'd brought to calm my nerves. Draco came to the door in dress robes; velvet, with gold piping. He gingerly shut the door behind himself and walked me away from the house.

"For fuck's sake, Hermione, what are you doing here?" he asked. "Merlin's -Today of all days. The Greengrasses are going to be here in half an hour for my _formal engagement to their daughter_. You can't be here."

I stood there, speechless, as he reached into his pocket and grabbed a small pouch of coins.

"Did you seriously think we were going to have a future together? Here, look. There's probably fifty galleons in there; why don't you get yourself something nice, okay? But meanwhile, I really have to go – and so do you."

I stood there for what felt like half an hour after he went back inside. Part of me wanted to torch the Manor and watch Draco and his horrid mother burn. Part of me wanted to end it all right there on his doorstep. In the end, however, I wound up hailing the Knight Bus and heading back to Devonshire. There were nearly a dozen bottles of wine still there, after all.

**Further Author's Note:** This story was written for the Teachers' Lounge 2014 Valentines Promptfest. Please leave a review, and check out the other stories, which are listed at topic/119413/104638777/1/2014-Valentines-s-Promptfest-story-list


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